


misjudgement

by howverypeculiar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gay Bar, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, it's humorous, this was just a quick thing, you've never known bathos till you've read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howverypeculiar/pseuds/howverypeculiar
Summary: “Keep your cool, avoid the pantless, do NOT DRINK.”“John, you’re not my mother. But point taken.”





	misjudgement

**Author's Note:**

> i know greg isn’t the only detective in london but come on why was he at musgrave tbh  
> also i will readily admit that this wasn't my finest hour and there are probably typos in this, but enjoy this night-out

The guy’s name is Daniel Juhasz. He’s driven his car into the rear of a Shogun and is being closely monitored. Scotland Yard has put their best man onto it, of course. 

The two men are sitting morosely opposite one another in the flat, the hearth barely glowing and smoking, the occasional minute flap of a flame breaking the silence. John is dropping off, his chin digging down into his neck, before his phone pulsates by his thigh, startling him awake. He looks straight ahead of him before answering the call, finding Sherlock absent from his chair, and instead is looking pensively out of the window into the November evening.

“Greg?” John holds the phone to his ear.

Muffled, he hears, “Yeah, hi buddy-“

“Is this Juhasz you’re on with?”

“Yeah. We’ve been tracking his car with the GPS system, don’t know why Mercs have it in nowadays, but, erm-“

“Yeah, where is he, Greg?” Despite his impatience, John holds his nerve.

“Right. He’s slap-bang in the centre of town, about half an hour from you. Half that if you taxi it. He might have moved about by the time you get there so keep an eye out. He has a bright blue quiff, proper Elvis-esque, you won’t miss him.”

“Okay, cheers, we’re onto it - bye, Greg.” He swiftly hangs up and immediately picks up a jacket. 

“Where do we go?” Sherlock questions, looking intently at John while locating his winter garments.

“Greg says right in the centre, so we’ll have to get a taxi. Tube’s too unpredictable at this time of night.”

“Okay, come on, no time to waste.” He’s out the door before John has time to reply.

 

~

 

The pair of them stand still while London bustles about them after they step out of the black cab.

“We’re looking for a silver Mercedes ML 250 - somewhere.”

“Yes,” John sighs in agreement. “Greg was a tad vague.”

“Call him again.”

Begrudgingly, John abides. Putting the phone to his ear and flinching at the cold metal, he grumbles “Greg.”

“Yeah, what’s the matter now, mate? Got him? That was quick, boys.”

“No, we haven’t. Where were you referring to, mate? Think ‘central London’ is a bit on the general side.” Both men have had enough of one another. It’s cold and they’re both knackered.

“Er…right. Try Shaftesbury? Soho?”

John does not reply; instead, he just hangs up coolly. Turning his head, but keeping his eyes elsewhere, he grunts to Sherlock, “Okay, he’s saying Soho, but who bloody knows at this point?”

The brisk walk is silent and rapid. Distracted by the speed he has to procure in order to keep up with Sherlock and his long limbs, John very nearly misses the flash of turquoise to his right, underneath the canopy of a club entrance. He backtracks, grabbing Sherlock by the fabric of his duster jacket, pinching briefly the skin of his elbow. Immediately he regrets doing anything before clearing his throat and saying “Oi, he’s here.” And luckily, there is a matching Mercedes with the correct registration number parked on the opposite verge. They both head for the entrance, then, at the last second prior to being within the building, they catch sight of the sign indicating the establishment: 

“ _ **G-A-Y** BAR!_ ”

Both clocking this at the same time, they mutually, telepathically decide to say nothing and at least try to act normal. Of course, this is impossible. Well then. 

~

“Keep your cool, avoid the pantless, do NOT DRINK.”

“John, you’re not my mother. But point taken.”

John ignores this, half because he can’t be arsed with Sherlock being cocky and half because his voice is muted almost completely by the throbbing bass of the trance music in this gay bar. Gay bar. Yes, that’s where they are. The room is hot and moist and the lights spasm in crimson, blue and green. There are couples grinding on one another and sucking on each other’s necks sloppily, while others surreptitiously whisper and writhe in darkened corners. Sherlock and John are undercover and of course, it had to be in this _gay bar_ in Soho. John looks at Sherlock, the extraordinarily stark shadows cast below his cheekbones and rigid brows, and realises that there’s no way that he will make it out of here unnoticed.

John is putting his foot down. “I am NOT going any further than here. I’m in a cable knit and corduroys, I’m hardly a turn-on. You can find him if you’re the clever one. Blend in, say nothing. Go.”

Sherlock does as he is told, swishing in his duster so effortlessly that John is irked with jealousy.

~

John is leaning against the bar, looking in no particular direction, vehemently denying any drinks, phone numbers or ‘cheeky snogs’ because he would rather be anywhere else but here. Well. Maybe. 

It’s been 10 minutes and Sherlock is back at the entrance where John is making himself as scarce as possible. Sherlock strides with an air of smugness up to John, his hair slightly mussed and holographic glitter striated across a cheekbone, highlighting its prominence yet more. Pissed off, John can’t help but think Oh God, what’s he been up to now?

“Look!” Sherlock shouts in his thick voice, so as to make himself heard over the electronic soundtrack and general bustle of this gay bar. He digs his right hand into a coat pocket and pulls out a wrinkle of _stuff_ that, to John’s mind, looks like paper and lint. Sherlock’s expression tells otherwise. Sherlock splays the _stuff_ out onto an empty square foot of the bar. John now sees eight serviettes with blue-black scrawls of numbers on them and a six-inch long strand of rainbow ribbon and a mini plastic rose and a £20 note, for some reason. After arranging them clearly Sherlock taps the tabletop, for closure.

John is keeping a poker-face. His fists curl tightly and he clenches his teeth together until it hurts. He inhales deeply, before pinching the bridge of his nose. Fuming, he clears his throat and speaks up dryly. “Right. What do you want me to say to that?”

Almost instantly John realises he misjudged Sherlock’s smug countenance for one of a forced smile. It drops and becomes aggravated. “Ten men, John. Ten _whole_ men in ten minutes. Is it just me?” 

John now decides it’s probably best not to ask if Daniel was found.

“Yes, I’d say so,” he retorted. “Right, come on, we’re going.”

Sherlock does the routine stand-in-the-middle-of-the-road-with-authority-and-wave cab hail and in a moment one is pulling up onto the kerb. He gives an assured ‘Baker Street, please’. The journey home is a solemn one. John can’t help but notice when Sherlock tilts his head at a certain angle, and the streetlight casts itself in its right place, his cheekbone still shimmers with glitter. As pissed off as he may be, and as miserable as the night has been, the picture seems to lift his mood, just a little bit.

~

John sits at his desk, typing his usual drabble onto his blog with little enthusiasm. Sherlock, he guesses, is in the kitchen, observing some microbes underneath a microscope. He is ever preoccupied with the happenings and resulting gifts from the gay bar (yes, he and his friend(?) just visited a gay bar together…as friends). It’s too odd and out of character to go ignored. He has to broach the subject. For his, er…curiosity.

A throat clear precedes a cautious “So…are you going to text… one of those men??… Maybe??” And immediately he’s regretting ever questioning him, know he’s misjudged it all. 

Sherlock groans and a _stomp-stomp-stomp_ is heard, so John hazards looking over his shoulder. He is startled by the gumption Sherlock has as he claws the ball of napkins and walks truculently to the bin. With the stroppiness of a teenager he thrusts the papers into it and flops onto the sofa.

John would understand quite clearly with that as a response. But words (albeit jumbled, quick and grumpy) follow:  
“John. I must be doing something wrong. I’m giving off the wrong signals. Even when I’m trying to be transparent, people are too stupid to figure me out! The world is too simple, too moronic, it truly is a burden, and those men were no different,’ he huffs, then he mumbles curses under his breaths and scrunches up tightly, again with adolescent moodiness.

The lump in John’s throat grows to the point of being unable to breathe. He’s miscalculated, and his thoughts tumble rapidly in his mind like a waterfall. _In what world would he ever be into men, god, I should have known right from the off, he’s into Irene, isn’t he, and he has been all along but didn’t tell me because it’s so glaringly obvious, how ridiculous, all those men thinking he was gay, you’ve cocked it up now…_

As eloquent as he is, a single word comes out that seems to be the only one in the English language that encompasses his thoughts. “What??”

Sherlock pauses and his eyes bore into John’s face, his pupils the size of pennies. The look on his face implies nothing else but ‘you’ve got to be joking’. He buries his head into his hands, and asks, full of amazement at John’s naivety: 

“John. In what universe do I look like a _top?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration from a prompt by the lovely @thepurplecarbuncle over on tumblr <3


End file.
